


Hylia

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond’s brought an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hylia

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The scouts were vague and he’s been busy of late, too busy to greet every visitor at the gates. When he’s informed of who it is that’s been brought into his home—or who, as Lindir puts it, he claims to be—Elrond wishes he’d been there from the beginning. Instead, he learns of it by the time his guest is already placed in spare chambers, having been offered a chance to bathe and eat. Elrond heads straight there the moment he gets word.

He has to deliberately slow his steps on the way there—he isn’t one for haste, but this is something worth running for. It brings back a shock of his youth. He has to remind himself that they’ll have many years going forward and impatience bears little reward. He reaches the guest chambers at a dignified pace, though his fingers tremble as he raps against the door, and his breath hitches when he hears a muffled, familiar voice call softly, “Come.” It’s raspier than he remembers, the accent of Quenya a little sharper, as though the speaker hasn’t used Sindar in some time. Elrond brings the door open.

And he finds Maglor sitting inside, perched on the end of a large, white bed, in crisp, blue robes from Elrond’s spare closet. The sun is just setting through the balcony, Maglor’s face turned towards it. It highlights him around the edges in a golden-orange glow, playing across his dark hair. He looks, for a moment, like something out of song: regal and artful, from a time long left behind. When he turns, Elrond can see the ages in his face, where his once-soft beauty’s been haggard, though he still takes Elrond’s breath away. Maglor’s eyes fall to Elrond, and they widen around the edges. 

Elrond draws closer, letting the door fall shut behind him. He can’t stop himself until he’s right at the end of the bed, just before Maglor’s knees, and Maglor reaches out for him like a vision. Tentative and delicate, Maglor’s long hands hold onto Elrond’s waist, then smooth up his sides, over the front of his robes, like Maglor can’t believe that he’s real and needs to feel him, corporeal and tangible. Under his breath, Maglor murmurs, “You have grown.” Even estranged as it is, his voice is fluid: always a singer. Sometimes, when Elrond closes his eyes at night, he can still hear Maglor’s music. Maglor’s eyes climb his body, reach his face, and Maglor sighs, almost reverent, “You have become a handsome Elven lord.”

Elrond can’t help his smile, though it’s thin, shaken. His own hands come to either side of Maglor’s hair, and he bends to kiss Maglor’s forehead, lingering more than he means to—he’d forgotten how warm and soft Maglor always felt in his embrace. He returns, “I am pleased to see you.” His voice comes out, perhaps, a little choked. He can’t express with words the depth beneath them. 

Maglor smiles back but bitterly. He looks away, eyes down, and mutters, “That can hardly be true.” 

Elrond’s already moving to take a seat beside him. So close that their legs brush—more proof that this is _real_ —Elrond takes Maglor’s hand in both of his, holding on and squeezing it. “I mean it,” he insists. Maglor won’t quite look at him, but Elrond keeps his hand captive and leans towards him, promising, “I missed you.”

Maglor’s eyes close like he’s in pain. He’s quiet for a moment, and his head drops, but then he picks it back up, and he says, “I am glad you are well. I am glad the horrors you have been through have not worn you down.” Then he takes a shuddering breath, and he finally looks back at Elrond, saying with his eyes as much as his mouth, “I am _so_ sorry for everything I did.”

“Hush,” Elrond instantly answers. He lifts Maglor’s hand to his lips and places a kiss on Maglor’s knuckles to show it. “I never held that grudge, and you know that.”

“You will have learned since then—”

“Nothing I did not already know of what happened then. It was a hard time, and even the greatest elves did things that they regret. You were good to me and to my brother.”

Maglor studies him a moment, perhaps for his sincerity, but Elrond means every word. After some searching, Maglor lifts his spare hand to cup Elrond’s face. He thumbs Elrond’s cheek. And he murmurs, “I cherished you.”

Elrond clasps his own hand over Maglor’s and answers quietly, “I know.”

For all the strength he once had, Maglor now looks _broken_. He was lost when Elrond’s people found him, wandering hopelessly. Elrond presses forward to hold their foreheads together, his arm wrapping around Maglor’s back. He pulls Maglor into that half embrace, and for half a minute, Maglor’s limp in it. Then Maglor _lunges_ at him, draws him closer, weaves long fingers into his hair and around his waist, and Elrond’s reminded of his other makeshift uncle, and the fire they both used to share. “I always loved you,” Maglor hisses next to his ear, and his tone tells everything: none of that ever went away. “I hoped you would always know that.”

“I did,” Elrond assures Maglor. “I always felt loved, and I loved you in return.” Even as he withdraws, having to gently push Maglor away, he continues, “I love you now. And I am glad you are here with me now.”

Opening his mouth, Maglor shakes his head, but Elrond still clings to his shoulders and presses, “ _Stay_ with me, Maglor. Your oath has long since resolved. You deserve to heal.” 

Maglor scrunches his eyes closed, whispering, “I do not wish to bring all the curse that lies with me into your haven...”

“It does not lie with you. It lies with the stones that are gone.” Elrond has to draw Maglor’s chin back to him to capture Maglor’s gaze. He’s indeed grown much since they were last together, though Maglor looks no older, only wearier. With the stern practice of a father and a lord, Elrond orders, “You took care of me, once. Let me take care of you. It would give me more pleasure than you can know.”

Again, Maglor looks like he might argue. But when he parts his lips, no words come out. He seems to struggle with himself, while Elrond holds him, and eventually, he shudders, and he nods his head. For one cold moment, Elrond fears he’ll cry and _shatter_. Instead, he curls around Elrond again, and Elrond holds him tight, the way Maglor used to do when Elrond was young and waking from nightmares of their bitter life.

When they’re finished, Elrond draws Maglor away to better quarters and begins the long tale of all he’s missed, while Maglor’s fingers intertwine with his, occasionally squeeze his palm, and finally, he begins to hum.


End file.
